Sorting Through
by kaineikarra
Summary: In an attempt to sort through the unbloggable events of "His Last Vow," John starts a private diary to sort through it all. But nothing stays private when Sherlock Holmes is around. (Spoilers for HLV, naturally)


**Warnings: **Spoilers for "His Last Vow," as the story does in fact take place right smack-dab in the middle of it. Some mild profanity, as well as possible overuse of the word "bloody." In John's defense, the situation bloody called for it.

**Summary: **In an attempt to sort through the unbloggable events of "His Last Vow," John starts a private diary to sort through it all. But nothing stays private when Sherlock Holmes is around.

* * *

**Sorting Through**

Personal Diary

Entry 1

Obviously I can't blog about this, which I suppose is why I'm here, staring at a blank Word document and trying to write about impossible, ridiculous, mad _mad_ things.

Because as it turns out, actually, in fact, my wife is a psychopath. And a liar, as well—can't forget that. My lovely, understanding, caring, _pregnant_ wife has been lying to me since day one.

I just can't

I can't understand how this could have happened.

And she shot him. She bloody well _shot_ him. My wife. My Mary. Shot my best friend. And the maddest thing of all? He's forgiven her. He stood right here in this very room, bleeding internally, face white as a sheet, actually _crying out in pain_, and told me to trust her. The woman who shot him. I will never, if I live to be a hundred years old, understand Sherlock Holmes. But then, I never expected to.

But Mary

Dammit.

Mary was supposed to be different.

I couldn't face going home tonight, so I'm spending the night at Baker Street. Sherlock's back in hospital, poor sod, so it was the obvious place to stay. It's a bit too quiet here without him, if I'm honest. Mrs. Hudson came by earlier to try and keep me company, but it was all a bit too much like when we thought we'd lost him. Just her and I, sitting here in the empty flat with no one microwaving eyeballs or shooting holes in the walls or just being a general obnoxious genius git. I had to ask her to leave after a while, and I think she understood. She understands more than she lets on, Mrs. Hudson. Can't seem to get past the idea that Sherlock and I were boyfriends, of course, but other than that, she's got a pretty good grip on things.

Anyway, the point of this was to write about Mary, so I should probably actually do that. I'm just not sure what to say. What can you say about something like this? Oh, so your wife used to be an assassin and she shot your best friend and nearly killed him, and by the way, she's pregnant with your child and here's a memory stick with all the details of her dark past on it? Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Tough luck, that is. Better luck next marriage.

Nope. Still doesn't make any sense to me. I doubt if it ever will.

But I suppose the big question right now is: Should I read it? It's right here in my pocket, just waiting for me to read all the sordid details about everything she's done. But here I am, not reading it.

Maybe because I don't actually want to read it. Because if I do, things might really be over between Mary and me, and however upset and _bloody pissed off_ I am about all this, I still can't stand the thought of my life without her.

Which probably says an awful lot about me.

I don't know. Maybe they're right about me. Maybe I do go out looking for this kind of thing in my life. But I swear to God, I didn't for a single, solitary second suspect that Mary might turn out to be like this. That was kind of the whole point. Sherlock was dead, or I thought he was, and I was just so tired of it all. And there was Mary, so nice and normal, and funny, and just all-around wonderful, and she saved my life. She absolutely did. But how much of that was real? Was any of it? Was it all a lie?

I suppose I'll find out. I can't stay here at Baker Street forever. Eventually I'll need to go home and face her, though I haven't a clue what we're going to say to each other, or if it's even possible for us to be all right after this.

I just keep thinking about Sherlock, damn him. Since he came back, he's been different. Still infuriating, still an absolute cock half of the time, but different somehow. More human, maybe, or at least trying to be. He's stood between me and women I fancied more times than I can count, but this time, _this time_, he's the one trying to push me and Mary together. Why? Why is he doing that?

Could just be because he's an asshole, but I have a bad feeling it's because he cares about me and, in his own strange way, wants me to be happy.

Bastard. If I want to be miserable, I'll bloody well be miserable, thank you very much.

* * *

Personal Diary

Entry 2

Sherlock's back at Baker Street, though God knows he probably shouldn't be. Still looks bloody awful, but try keeping him in a hospital bed when he doesn't want to be there. He didn't crawl out the window this time, at least—seems like he had a talk with the doctors and convinced them to release him, on the strict understanding that he would be under constant medical supervision once he got home.

Yep, that'd be me, apparently. Dr. John Watson, personal physician to Sherlock Holmes. So far, there's not much to it. I've been checking his vitals every now and then, but mostly he's just been shouting for things. Bring me this, bring me that, I'm _bored_, where are my cigarettes, where's my skull, and so on. So, yeah, basically the same as always.

I'd never admit it to him, but it's good having him here. Gives me something to focus on, for one thing. And of course, being here taking care of him means not having to go home and face Mary for a while longer.

Ah, and there he is again. Jesus, keep your bloody shirt on. This is going to get old fast.

.

.

He was bored again. Wanted me to play games with him, which I'd never do under ordinary circumstances, but he looks so pathetic that I couldn't say no.

We played cards for a bit, which was okay, and then Monopoly, which wasn't. But the less said about that, the better. (Seriously, Sherlock, it doesn't matter how airtight an alibi you come up with, when you get the "Go Directly To Jail" card, you do in fact have to go to jail.)

It's a bit strange, seeing him like this. Lying in bed covered in bandages, too weak to do much, and still in a lot of pain even though he tries to hide it. Because she shot a _hole_ in him. Jesus.

Sorry. Still can't seem to get past that bit. But I'm going to have to, aren't I? If I want to stay with her.

Anyway, what was I saying? Right. About it being strange seeing Sherlock this way. He never really gets sick, and so

No, you know what? Back to the whole "she shot him" business. How could she do that? How could anyone do such a horrible, cold-blooded thing? I don't care how surgically calculated the damned shot was, it was still a shot, and he nearly died from it. Did die from it, actually. Flat-lined, dead, gone, to the point that the doctors working on him gave up altogether. Gave him up for dead.

But he came back. He was too stubborn to die, and that's the only reason I'm sitting here in this flat looking after my best friend instead of standing in a cemetery again. How could she do that? _How could she do that? _She bloody well knew what it did to me when I thought I'd lost him last time, and yet she nearly

.

.

Mrs. Hudson just came in. Apparently I was shouting. I didn't even notice, which probably isn't a good sign.

I need some air. Looks like Sherlock's gone to sleep, finally, so I think I'll nip out for a bit.

* * *

Personal Diary

Entry Three

I've been a week at Baker Street now, and Sherlock's doing a lot better. Physically, anyway. Mentally, he's bored and determined to make everyone suffer for it.

Mary came by this morning. Brought me some more of my things, and wanted to see how Sherlock was doing.

She's still wearing that same damn perfume. The smell of it should make me sick, but it doesn't. It just makes me miss her more. And I guess that's made me realize: I'm grieving for her. Because it's like she's died, in a way. The Mary I thought she was is gone, and now there's this different woman in her place. And even though she sounds the same and smells the same and basically acts the same, I know it's not her. It's not my Mary.

This woman, this killer, is the real Mary. My Mary was never real.

.

.

**Hello, John. You seem to have left your laptop unattended again, which I believe you've discovered in the past is rarely a good idea when I'm around. I gather you assumed I was far too bed-ridden to find it here in the kitchen, but it should come as no surprise that a man who is capable of climbing out a window shortly after he's been shot can in fact manage a short walk to the kitchen nearly two weeks afterwards.**

**In any case, having read the entirety of this, I do need to point out that you're being much too melodramatic about Mary. I've been keeping a close eye on her since our first meeting, and I'm absolutely convinced that her behavior towards you has been nothing but genuine. She may have hidden her past from you, but her affection for you is so obvious that even someone entirely ignorant of the ways of love—namely, me—can see it. Remember, she was willing to shoot me not for the sake of killing me, but for the sake of preserving her relationship with you. While I can't say I'm particularly fond of her methods, the fact remains that her primary motivation in what she did was to avoid losing you.**

**Ah, and it would seem you've returned from your outing. Judging by the weight and rhythm of your steps and the irritating rustling noise, I gather you've been to the supermarket. I hope you've bought more crisps. We seem to be out. –SH**

.

.

Sherlock bloody Holmes, I will kill you. STAY OFF MY COMPUTER.

.

.

**John – Not sure why you bothered typing the above, unless you assumed I'd come back and read it. In which case, it's rather pointless requesting that I stay off your computer, as I'm quite obviously already here. -SH**

* * *

Personal (that means PRIVATE, as in don't bloody read it) Diary

Entry Four

Back home now, and it feels a bit strange. Sherlock is finally on his feet again, which is good news, but of course that also means I've no more reason to stay at Baker Street. He actually seemed sorry to see me go, though of course he was obnoxious about it as usual. Said it was too bad I'd be leaving, because I'm so much easier to beat at board games than Mycroft. Git. But it's good to see him so much back to his old self.

Mary and I haven't said more than a few words to each other since I got back, and I feel like things are going to stay that way for a while. I'm not ready to forgive her yet, and more than that, I need time to figure out who she is, what was real about the Mary I knew and what wasn't. And after that, after I figure that out, maybe I'll be able to trust her again.

But not yet.

I still haven't looked at the memory stick. I've been carrying it around with me everywhere, and I catch myself running my fingers over it sometimes. It would be so easy to just plug it into my computer and read it, but I still can't do it. I still don't want to do it. She said I'd stop loving her if I read it, and I believe her.

And I guess I'm not ready to stop loving her. Because I do still love her like mad, despite the dark past and attempted-murder-of-best-friend. Which is more than a little pathetic, but there you go.

* * *

Personal Diary

Entry Five

It's been a while since my last entry. About two months, I think. Nothing much has happened—Mary and I sleep in the same bed, eat breakfast in the same kitchen, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to sleep. But we don't talk, not unless it's about shopping lists or her doctor's appointments or whose turn it is to mow the lawn.

I still haven't read it.

I've been out on a few cases with Sherlock, nothing too out of the ordinary (and nothing too strenuous, as he's still healing), and that's made life a little more bearable. But I keep catching him peering at me like he's trying to figure out how I'm doing. It's bloody unnerving, most of all because concern for my emotional well-being is the last thing I'd expect from Sherlock Holmes.

Speaking of unexpected things, he's invited Mary and me round to his parents' house for Christmas.

Yeah.

Unbelievable.

But he was really adamant about it, and it's not the easiest thing in the world to put him off when he really wants something. So, it seems Mary and I will be joining the Holmes family for Christmas dinner, and I'm not sure if it'll be hilarious or the most awkward day I've ever spent. Might be both.

It should make a good setting, though, for what I have to tell Mary. Here at home, it's hard to break out of the routines we've set. But in a different house, at Christmas, I might finally be able to tell her.

Because I'm ready now. Or I think I am, anyway. It's taken me months to see it, but I think Sherlock was right.

This woman, this woman I've married and live with and who's carrying my baby, is Mary. Mary Watson, which might not be the name she was born with, but it's who she is now. This is the woman I love, and the woman I chose. She's done things in her life that she's not proud of and wanted to get away from, and I guess I can understand that.

She did lie to me. But I don't think who she was was ever a lie. I can still look in her eyes and see the woman I fell in love with, and that's enough for me. What she did in her past is her business. All I care about is who she is now, and the life we can have together. Will have together. With our child.

Sherlock knew that all along. I hate it when he's right, but he's nearly always bloody right, and this time is no exception.

I still have to figure out exactly what I'm going to say to her, but I'm sure I'll work it out. And then we'll work this out together, she and I, and somehow everything will be all right. And if it's not, at least it won't be for lack of trying.

.

.

**Well done, John. After months of awkward silence between you and your wife, you've at last arrived at the conclusion I put forth right from the start. Well done indeed. –SH**

**PS: I'd hate to cause you undue confusion (as you already seem hopelessly confused by so much we encounter), so allow me to explain how I've gained access to your "private" files yet again. I stopped by this afternoon to have a word with Mary about Christmas, and as you were out, I took advantage of your absence to see how you were progressing with things here. Glad to see you've decided to be sensible and follow my advice. **

**Also, I can't help noticing that you've set your computer password to "fuckoffsherlock." Bit obvious, really, and far too easy to hack.**

**See you at Christmas. -SH**


End file.
